


if you don't succeed try try again

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, Happy Ending tho, M/M, newt def has some trauma re a decade of possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22119817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: Hermann Gottlieb: currently deceased.Newt's angling to fix that.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler & Hermann Gottlieb, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	if you don't succeed try try again

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "Prompt: The precursors kill Hermann. Humanity still wins that day but they're going to need Hermann if they're going to truly stop the precursors. Going to need to let Newt anywhere near the subject. Newt goes back in time pre-pitfall and Hermann is there and so young and so alive and how did Newt think he could handle this? "
> 
> annnnnnnyway as you see it got out of hand lol. happy ending though

"Hermann," Newt says.

There's not much he can do besides offer a nod of greeting; they've got him restrained from the neck down, and it's barely even a nod; more of a tip of his head. Still; seeing Hermann is—good, really good.

It keeps him sane, in a way.

The other watches him for a moment, hand folded over his cane. "Newton," he says. "How are you? Have they been treating you well? Are—"

"I'm fine," Newt says, cutting him off; and it's untrue. "Better," he amends. "Getting...better." That, at least, is true; his scans are coming back better, if the medical officers are to be believed. Closer to human baseline. The Precursors are still there, but the connection is weak. Weakening.

Hermann licks his lips. The movement, a quick flicker, isn't something that was Hermann—before. Nervousness—shown. Hermann has never been that unguarded in his memories.

He shakes it away. "You doing anything fun?"

"Not much, no," Hermann says; and his hand falls away; fingers playing at the edge of his blazer hem. "I..." He trails off. "No. No." And then he crosses over to where Newt is restrained.

Newt runs his tongue over the inside of his teeth; anxious; waiting. He doesn't say anything.

And then as Hermann reaches for the restraints on Newt's wrists, it happens. Newt's vision goes white. No. _No_. "Hermann!" he tries to scream, " _no_ —" but it's too late; he's gone, for the moment; gone, _gone_ oh god oh no oh no no _no_ —

" _No!_ " he screams, falling to his knees; beats his fists against the unchanging white of the mental space; fists bloodying as the skin splits but there is no _pain_ because he's only bleeding because he thinks he should be; there's no pain because he can't—he's not—there's _nothing_ —

They're doing it.

He can't see it. Can't feel it. Doesn't know how long it's been, but that's the only thing he can possibly _imagine_ because they've been yearning, _thirsting_ for a chance, _any_ chance to get their hands on him; to get at the _one_ person who's ever been able to do any sort of lasting thwarting of their plans.

His shoulders slump.

There's nothing he can do. Nothing he can do until they go.

He waits.

And then; he is gasping back.

" _Geiszler._ "

Newt chokes on a mixture of his own spit and blood. He's restrained again; and though his fingers are clean, so far as he can tell, but he can feel— _something._ "Y—yes?" he croaks. "I—is he— _Hermann—?_ "

Pentecost's lips purse; tight, and there's something like— _pity_ in his eyes; unusual, because, as long as Newt has known him—even from childhood—Jake has never been one to resort to pity, because pity; pity is for those you see as _weaker._

"I'm sorry," he says; softly, "he's—he's gone."

Newt swallows.

Tries to open his mouth.

There's nothing there. He doesn't have anything to say.

His mind is blank. He wants to scream; to cry; he doesn't do either.

"Did they—?" he asks; doesn't finish the thought, because he knows they all know; it's been publicised enough, what happened; that day at Shao Industries.

Jake nods. "We—" he pauses. "There was nothing we could do. He was..." he doesn't finish.

Newt swallows again, and closes his eyes.

He doesn't ask to be allowed to see Hermann one last time; he doesn't want to see Hermann's slack, lifeless face. He's not sure they'd let him, anyway.

"We need Gottlieb," Jake tells him, months later; standing across from him. He's dressed uniform; looks uncomfortable in it, but he wears it like he knows how. He must have some publicity thing coming up, or just got finished with one. Newt has never seen him in anything but sweatpants and loose shirts.

Newt laughs; and the sound is hollow. "No shit, Sherlock," he says; tiredly. "You're...you're losing, aren't you?"

There's silence, and Newt sighs; eyes slipping shut. And then, finally; resignedly; quietly: "Yes."

A humourless smile is stretched across his face, and Newt gives a matching one.

And then the ranger says, "I want you to get him back."

Newt blinks at him. "What," he asks— _says,_ more, really. "I—sorry, uh? What?"

The other gives him a level look. "I've read your old papers," he says, "the ones you did on the theory of time-travel. I need you to bring that theory to life."

"I—" an incredulous laugh bubbles out of Newt's throat, and rises; crescendos, throat raw, and were he standing, he'd double over. "You—hah!" Tears are building in his eyes; making his vision blurry; hysterical laughter still spilling from his lungs.

Jake waits.

Finally, Newt sobers. "You're not joking, are you?" he asks.

The other shakes his head. "No," he says, "we—we can win battles, sure, but if we want to win the war..."

"You need Hermann," Newt finishes, and lets his head fall back against the hard headrest of the upright bed they have him in.

"Yes. And I need you to get him back for us. And," he pauses, turning to look behind him; silent, for a moment, and then: "your scans show you're cleared. If you agree to do this, I've arranged with the PPDC for some freedoms for you—food, less restraints. The PPDC will provide whatever materials you need."

Newt's silent; and then he laughs again. "You're really desperate, aren't you? Coming to me—"

"Will you do it?" Jake asks.

"I—" Newt swallows. "Yes," he says, "yeah." _You don't even need to bribe me_ , Newt doesn't say, _if this works, that'll be enough._

Jake nods. "Good," he says, "I'll get it arranged, then."

* * *

_"Alright, uh, this is...this is the audio-log of Doctor Newt Geiszler for my...my—oh, screw it_ — _"_

_[LAUGHTER]_

_"I'm a disgraced genius who spent ten years possessed by aliens who tried to commit genocide, and killed my best friend, and now I'm...now I'm trying to invent time-travel so that I can save him. Yeah. Fucked, I know."_

_[there's the sound of paper shuffling. HE seems to be writing something_ — _there's the sound of GRAPHITE scratching on paper]_

_"Anyway, this is...test one. I've got lab mice, and I'm going to be using them as test animals._

_"This probably won't work."_

_[HE sighs. There's resignation in his tone]_

_"Oh, well. Here goes nothing."_

_[ELECTRICITY crackles. There's the squeak of a rodent_ — _a mouse. HE says something, inaudible, and then the squeaking ends]_

 _"One, two, three_ — _"_

_[there's a sudden SNAP. HE sighs again.]_

_"Nope. Nothing. Well, I guess that rules out THAT method unless I want someone to wind up dead. Anyway, I'll commence...further trials and work tomorrow. It's getting late, I think, and I'm tired, so..."_

* * *

_"...I think I've figured out the problem. It's been two days since my last mouse-trial_ — _the mice all died_ — _and I haven't been able to bring myself to try again. But last night, I_ — _"_

_[HE hesitates. When he speaks, there's something...APPREHENSIVE in his tone]_

_"The nightmares started again. I thought I wouldn't have any more ever again_ — _once...once THEY were gone, I didn't have any more, so I just figured that it was something they had been doing to me...something to do with the Anteverse connection._

_"But..."_

_[HE hesitates again.]_

_"Last night, I had another one. And I think I've made a breakthrough."_

_[HE speaks faster now; the words slurring into each other, and there is EXCITEMENT in his tone]_

_"It's_ — _the Anteverse connection, I'm sure of it. Time...doesn't work the same way, there_ — _that's how they managed to make all the kaiju and send them through so closely together even though it would sometimes take YEARS to build them properly._

 _"Anyway, I think_ — _I THINK that I might be able to use that difference_ — _the warp of time_ — _to get back. And...it's going to have to be me, I'm sure of it. The, uh, connection I had_ — _that I guess I still HAVE_ — _would..."_

_[there's rustling. HE seems to be moving; perhaps engaging in a nervous habit; it sounds like HE might be raking his hand through his hair]_

_[when HE speaks again, there's something SOFT]_

_"It would allow me to go back. To...to try and save Hermann."_

* * *

Jake comes in a few days later; Newt's standing, now; he's got enough freedom for that, though he can only move about a foot or so away from his bed. He's back in casual clothes, and he looks more at home in them; more at ease. Still, though, his shoulders are taut, and Newt thinks he can see new lines carved by stress on his face.

"So," he says, "what've you got?"

Newt takes a deep breath; fingers fidgeting nervously. "I think I have good news," he says.

The other nods; a clear invitation to continue.

"Mental," Newt says, and then, because he realises that disjointed word isn't going to do anything, "time travel, I mean; there's no way to do it physically—to many issues, I don't really have time to go into it, but trust me, it's not really possible—but as you know, I have a connection to the Anteverse, and I think I can use that connection, as well as a device I invented, to...basically X-Men: Days of Future Past myself and...well, make sure Hermann doesn't die."

There's a silence.

"Right, then," Jake says, finally. "You're sure it'll work?"

Newt rolls his eyes. "Absolutely not," he says, "I'd give it a 45% chance of leaving me comatose and/or blowing me up, but...it's the best shot we have."

"...okay then," Jake says, "is there anything you need?"

Newt nods. "Yeah. Some PONS tech and a medical team to monitor me, but other than that..." he takes a breath. "Other than that, no. I'm ready." _As I'll ever be_ , he doesn't add; because, honestly, there's really no way to be fully be _ready_ for this.

"Right, right," Jake says, and that's all he says before leaving.

That night, Newt doesn't sleep; just lays on the bed and stares blankly at the ceiling and hope— _prays_ , with an ardency he's never had before, that this works.

The next day is heavy; barely anyone speaks. It only takes him a few hours to actually fully assemble the contraption, but it seems to stretch far longer than that; time becoming molasses-slow. Finally, though, it's done and he's all connected both to it and the various other machines they're going to be using to monitor him.

Newt takes a deep breath; presses the initiate sequence and waits.

 _One._ (His eyes are wide, so wide, and his fingers are on Newt's hands.)

 _Two_. ( _You're a good man, Newton!_ he says.)

 _Three._ ( _I'll go with you_.)

Fade to blue.

He can feel the tug—there it is, there it _is_ —

And then there are monitors screaming and people yelling and he is back and it is 2037 and he is laying on the ground bleeding from where he's bit through his lip and Hermann is still dead.

For the first time in over a decade, Newt cries.

* * *

"Let me try again," Newt says; desperate.

Jake shakes his head. "No," he says, "there's to much of a risk."

"Oh, _now_ there's a _risk_ ," Newt scoffs. "If I die I doubt anyone will be too sad about it, so shut the fuck up and say you're a coward."

"Geiszler, you're being ridiculous—"

"What about Mako?" Newt cuts in. "If I can do this, then she won't—"

The ranger's jaw tightens, and Newt snaps his mouth shut; knows he's gone too far, now. "Don't you _dare,_ " Jake hisses, "don't you _dare_."

"Fine," Newt says, "just—just give me one more chance, okay? And if that doesn't work, I'll—I'll shut up about it, but please—just one more time. _Please_."

He opens his mouth and Newt closes his eyes; waiting for rejection. " _Fine,_ " he says, the word sharp. "One last chance."

"I—" Newt swallows. "Thank you," he says; softly. _I'm sorry_ , he doesn't say, but he wants to.

"Don't make me regret it."

* * *

Again.

He lays down.

He's made some modifications—nothing much, but hopefully, _hopefully_ , it works this time. It almost worked, last time, but—almost isn't good enough. Not now; not with this.

He enters the sequence again; doesn't bother laying down this time.

 _Three_.

 _Two_.

 _One_.

Fade to blue.

 _Pain_.

Newt grits his teeth; hard; he can get through this, goddamn it all. He _has_ to. He's already done so _much_ and he has to—has to try and make it right. So he grits his teeth hard enough that it hurts, and lets the burning blue of it wash over him, like a riptide, pulling him away, and he's drowning and burning all in one—

 _One_. (Hermann is holding him; tight; cane knocked aside.)

 _Two_. (Hermann is quietly draping a blanket over him, and when Newt manages a shaky _thank you_ he just says _you needn't_ and turns his head so his gaze isn't meeting Newt's and his hands are still but Newt gets the feeling that he wishes to do— _something_ with them.)

 _Three_. ( _Hermann Gottlieb,_ Newt writes. _You don't know me, but I know of you_.)

* * *

He's standing on a sidewalk.

People ignore him; they all have places to be. The sun is bright; the air cold. He pulls his scarf closer. Checks his phone; _February 28 2017_. His phone vibrates.

_herms <3: 13.30, yes? [11:45, 27/2/17]_

Newt scrambles through his thoughts; then finds a bench to sit down at so he can scroll through his texts because suddenly, he can't _stand_.

_n: hey herms u want to meet up? [01:20, 14/12/16]_

_h: when? [07:14, 15/12/16]_

_n: berlin? im going to a conference.......theres some p good cafes iirc + its close enough u can take the tube from ur place i think.........or a train. its from feb 26_ — _mar 2 [01:23, 15/12/16]_

_h: I'll check my schedule [01:45, 15/12/16]_

_h: will 28/2/17 work? [16:56, 17/12/16]_

_n: yeah!! i only have one session that day...i'm free after 11 [21:17, 17/12/16]_

_n: happy ny!!!! looking forward to (maybe?) seeing u this year!! [21:00, 1/1/17]_

_h: :) [22:02, 1/1/17]_

_h: I'm free from 13.00_ — _18.00 that day so yes hopefully [22:02, 1/1/17]_

_n: !!! [00:01, 2/1/17]_

_n: hang on let me find the address of this one place i rly think u'd like [00:03, 2/1/17]_

_n: [google maps link] this place good? [00:07, 2/1/17]_

_h: oh! I think I've been there...they serve a very nice strudel [00:17, 2/1/17]_

_n: great!! see u there [00:42, 2/1/17]_

"Fuck," Newt whispers.

It's quarter past one.

There's no backing out from this now. This is why he came, anyway—

And then he blinks and he's standing in a cafe and it's 1:27 and—

There he is; early, as usual, because, well, this is _Hermann_ and he almost laughs, at that. The other pulls out his phone; checks it, and then looks around, gaze settling on Newt's table. Hermann hasn't seen him before, Newt knows, so they agreed Newt would wear his obnoxiously visible red Godzilla graphic t-shirt.

Hermann makes his way over. "Newton," he says, after a moment, and then sits, "how are you?"

His face is much younger—of course it is—and it hasn't gone all thin and pale yet; some baby-fat still remains, and the stress and sleepless nights haven't made their mark on him, now. Newt swallows. How did Newt think he could _handle_ this?

"You look like you're a repressed Victorian ghost," he says, instead; because he can't say any of the _other_ things he wants to so he resorts to old tactics and remembers a moment too late, as Hermann's expression shutters, that this is not _his_ Hermann, and he isn't at the point where he can brush off such a comment just yet.

"As if _you_ have any room to speak," Hermann hisses back, "you're arrogant and scatter-brained and egotistical and you are _utterly_ unprofessional."

It's harsh; too harsh; more than Newt is used to, and suddenly, he realises how much _his_ Hermann didn't really mean the things he said; how even the insults were tinged with fondness, while this Hermann is all sharp edges and hurt trying to put up walls to protect himself.

It doesn't last long, and once again, Newt is left alone and with an unimaginably deep ache in his chest.

He stares out the window on the flight back to Boston; watches the view change to the light grey of clouds, and thinks, miserably, _Nothing's going to change_. And then he stops, because—the very fact that he's _here_ is because he looked at the impossible and said _fuck it_. The least he can do is _try_ and change the course of history.

He pulls out his laptop from his carry-on and powers it on and starts to type up and email to send when he lands.

* * *

_Hermann,_

_I know that we didn't...exactly have the best first meeting. I know you're probably hurting, and that's okay. It's my fault, though, and I wanted to say I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did; it was uncalled for._

_I...wanted to ask if maybe I can try again?_

_You're like, my best friend, and I don't want to lose whatever relationship we have, or had. I get if you say no_ — _that's okay, and I get it, but I figured you deserve an apology anyway._

_Anyway, like I said, I'm really sorry._

_I hope to hear from you soon,_

_Newt_

* * *

It...works.

Kind of; Newt can tell that they're not as close as they were, but he gets that; really, he does, because what he said to Hermann wasn't fair, and Hermann has every right to be upset and hurt over it. Sometimes, he finds himself about to give a snappy retort to something Hermann says and then stops, because, no; this is not his Hermann; this Hermann will not understand the meaning behind what Newt says, and it will hurt him, and that—that is the last thing Newt wants.

His phone vibrates, and when he checks it, it shows that Hermann's texted him.

Newt unlocks his phone; opens messages.

 _h: I have a theory I'd like you to look over, if you'd like_ — _it might be a dead end, but I thought perhaps you'd be interested in it [16/9/18]_

Newt smiles, and his heart aches, suddenly; this is the first time in the nearly year and a half since that disastrous first meeting that Hermann has texted him first. Quickly, fingers shaking a bit, he types his reply

_n: ofc!!! idk what its abt but i'm sure its great!! [17/9/18]_

_h: [link] [17/9/18]_

_h: it's about the possible nature of what lies on the other side of the Breach [17/9/18]_

When he opens it, it looks...oddly familiar. It's only a draft—mostly just a bunch of interconnected ideas written out in bullet-points—his Hermann did that too, he thinks fondly—, but it's sound theorising, going off of the information they already have.

And then he realises it; it's the beginnings of a paper Hermann will write on Breach theory—in his world, he had only read it years after it was published; his rift with Hermann had meant that, for a period of time, he'd avoided anything to do with Hermann.

And now...and now, Hermann is showing him the beginnings of it.

It's—well, it's _something_.

He doesn't know what to call it, but he's going to do his damned hardest to keep it from fizzling out.

* * *

_From: spentecost@ppdc.org_

_To: ngeiszlerkaijul0ver@gmail.com_

_Subject: employment offer_

_Dr. Geiszler,_

_The PPDC would like to extend to you an offer of employment in our Kaiju Sciences Research Division. You come highly recommended by a number of those already in our employ._

_Attached is an overview of what duties and research you would be performing, as well as the pay and accommodations. If you would like to negotiate or have any questions, please email emmamcelvin@ppdc.org or mvespa@ppdc.org, who are the co-heads of the PPDC human resources department._

_Regards,_

_Marshal Stacker Pentecost_

* * *

_h: [birthday-cake gif] [00:00, 19/1/19]_

_h: I hope that I wasn't mistaken about the day... [00:00, 19/1/19]_

_n: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! [00:17, 19/1/19]_

_n: no no its right!! ty!! [00:19, 19/1/19]_

_h: ah [07:48, 19/1/19]_

_h: well, I'm glad, then [07:48, 19/1/19]_

_h: happy twenty-ninth birthday, Newton [07:56, 19/1/19]_

* * *

Newt's bags are packed.

It's almost funny; how his packing differs, now, from the last time. He remembers, vividly, packing it last time when the PPDC hired him; how he'd wound up barely fitting his stuff into two large, bulging grey suitcases; stuffed full of clothes and bits and bobs, of which, frankly, he had _quite_ a lot.

This time, though, he finds he barely fills a single suitcase; the only things he remembers having last time as well as now are his ties, a few posters, and some skinny-jeans—animal comforts he longed for during that horrible decade, ones that he clings to, though they seem alien, because it's really the only way to cling to who he was; who he wants to be. Who he _should_ be.

It's...sobering, in a way; this difference.

He drags his gaze away from the suitcase, and instead pulls out his phone; checks the time and double-checks the flight info. Seat 34C, 4:00 PM, gate ten.

He'd better get going. Customs is hell, even more now, post-Trespasser, than it was before.

He checks to see if Hermann's texted him yet—Newt already knows they're both going to be assigned to the Hong Kong Shatterdome together; and he wonders if this Hermann will tell him; if they're close enough for that. His Hermann hated him, still, at that point; the way one hates an old wound that throbs still; one they cannot put out of their mind.

It's bittersweet, like that—how, though this Hermann is kinder to him from earlier on, it still makes Newt ache; makes him think of a murder he doesn't remember committing; of a death-paled face he never saw.

He swallows and picks his suitcase up and gives one last look at his apartment before he turns and walks out the door.

He has to take some meds before the flight this time; somehow, Hermann's phobia of it that passed on to him during their Drift has remained with him when he came back, kicking up along with a few other Drift-related things, a few days after his awful first meeting with Hermann, so he's out until a few minutes before the plane lands.

It's as he's about to leave the airport, in the _Incoming_ , that it happens.

Newt spots Hermann Gottlieb stood awkwardly leaning on his cane, looking around with something like nervousness in his gaze, and a small sign that reads, in bold, hand-written font, _Doctor Newton Geiszler_.

It takes him aback; has someone forced Hermann to come? But no; he doesn't look _sullen_ as much as he does—unsure. So he...he must be here voluntarily. It's surprising, frankly.

Still; he makes his way over; pulling his jacket—not yet ripped or bloodied—a bit tighter around him to combat the slight chill of the airconditioned air, the sound of his Doc Martins muffled by the disjointed droning white-noise of everyone around him.

It takes him forty-six steps to get to Hermann. (He counts.)

"Hermann," he starts, and then thinks better of it. "Doctor Gottlieb. I'm...surprised you're here."

Hermann drops the arm holding the sign so that it hangs limply by his side, and offers a thin smile. "Hermann," he corrects. "And I, ah, heard you'd be coming...I managed to find out when your flight would be landing, and I thought—well," he stops; licks his lips and doesn't continue.

"Ah," Newt says.

It's a silent commute to the Shatterdome. Newt keeps getting the urge to reach out, to say something to Hermann, but he stops; doesn't know if he's allowed; doesn't know if he'd know what to say, to this Hermann; far younger and— _more_ , somehow, vibrant than his Hermann, who feels, in his memories of the times when he was out of the Precursors' influence, faded.

It's painful, nearly, here, so close, in the taxi, to Hermann. His heart aches, and his lungs are on fire. He ignores it.

Hermann shows him his quarters; he knows which ones they're going to give him, but he doesn't tell Hermann that; just lets him say things, because he can tell Hermann is feeling awkward, and he knows that this will calm him. Hermann hands him the key; hovers, for a moment, and then glances at his wrist. "Well," he says, "it's getting rather late—I _do_ have work tomorrow, so.." he trails off. "Goodnight, then, Newton."

"Goodnight," Newt says, back; hollow, and watches Hermann walk down the hall to his own quarters.

* * *

They don't see each other much, that first year; their respective departments are still large enough that they hardly ever work together—any information they need to exchange is done through email and reports. They do keep up with texting and emailing, though, and Newt thinks, perhaps, they're almost as close as they were before.

Things unfold the way he remembers they will; Knifehead takes Yancy Beckett out. Funding dries up. The Coastal Wall begins gaining traction. Their co-workers leave, too; Newt knows it won't be long before they're the only ones left.

Not long until...

He doesn't like thinking about that too much; the Drift. The first one.

He keeps— _stopping_. Around Hermann, that is; when he tries to say anything, it seems to all dry up in his throat; like everything he could possibly say has been said and _cannot_ be said because he doesn't know _how_ to say it; how to make Hermann understand it.

His Drift partner is still alive, but all he can feel in the Drift is _hollow_.

He can't stop thinking about that first Drift, either, is the thing; and it only gets worse when, in '23, the brain's transferred from Sydney to Hong Kong.

"I wonder if I can Drift with it," he says, offhand, though he knows the answer already. It's just him, Hermann, and two others, at this point; and Hermann's the only one in now. "Organic matter—should give me _some_ insight..."

"That could actually work."

Newt blinks; it's Hermann. Hermann heard him, and he—"Sorry," Newt says, "what?"

"I think it could be a sound course of action," Hermann says. "Well—with precautions, anyway. A single human...no; it'd overload you. You'd need a partner for it."

Newt's mouth turns up in a wry grin. "My brain's shit," he says, "the chance of finding anyone who would match me...it's low enough that it's basically impossible." It isn't; he knows it isn't, but he's not going to tell Hermann that. He's not going to...and anyway, as far as he knows, all those years with Alice could have changed his stats. He doesn't know if this Hermann would even be _compatible_ with him.

"Then we'll comb every database we have," Hermann says; and there's a spark of _stubborn_ there that Newt remembers so well. "And in the meantime, I'll help you figure out a way to Drift with it."

There's a quietness; suddenly; as if Hermann is embarrassed by his sudden, almost _emotional_ outburst. And then Newt laughs. He can't help himself. "You—you'd do that for me? Or with me," he corrects, after a moment, and another laugh bubbles up in him. "Well—anyway. Thank you, Hermann."

"Of course," the other says, and doesn't meet his gaze. "Just doing my job."

Newt smiles, and it is tired. He thinks he can feel a warmth blossoming in his chest, though the ache is still there.

* * *

Hermann helps him; in the end. The final product is far less slap-dash that it was the first time around.

They work on it, in turns, and sometimes together—when they're out of official work, or they don't have enough to go off of.

It's one of these times that it happens. He's doing the wiring, and Hermann's checking over his work every so often as he works on the coding. He's got a mug of tea—Newt figured he'd grab Hermann some tea when he went down to go get himself some coffee—and when Newt looks up for a moment, he's raised it to his lips. He's not typing—just staring at Newt, tongue between his teeth, looking almost— _thoughtful_.

The instant he realises Newt's seen him watching, his gaze snaps back to his work, and his ears redden—embarrassment at being caught, almost, though _why_ , Newt can't even fathom. Certainly, it's not anything _unusual_. His Hermann, who he's taken to calling Hermann Prime in his head, did the same, in their later years working together, and then especially after their Drift, and Newt just learnt to ignore it, but he never did figure out _why_.

Newt shakes his head; trying to dislodge the thoughts. "How's it going?" he asks, and he's surprised when his voice comes out cracked and dry.

Hermann turns to him again, and frowns. "Quite well," he says, "though _you_ sound simply _dreadful_. Are you getting sick?"

"Uh, no," Newt says, "I don't think so. Just haven't talked in a while, you know, or drunk anything." He finished his coffee hours ago, and he hasn't managed to convince himself to get up and get another cup.

"Hmm," Hermann says, "perhaps you ought to call it a night. It's already past two."

"Oh," Newt says, "is it?" He's lost track of time—he could have sworn it was maybe eleven at the latest.

Hermann rises; leaves his mug at his desk and moves to Newt's side. "Up," he says, "you need to rest. I'll escort you to your quarters to make _sure_ you don't skive."

Newt considers protesting. He would have, too—had, on multiple occasions, the first time around, too proud to admit anything, but...any arrogance and ego he had has sort of been driven out in those ten years with the Precursors. Something about lacking any control over one's self means that you no longer are so embarrassed or humiliated by the little things.

So he lets Hermann herd him towards his quarters, a hand on his lower back—to steady him, Newt assumes—, and when they get to his door, Hermann follows him in and makes sure he actually changes his clothes and gets into bed.

Newt thinks about making a joke about Hermann being fussy, and then reconsiders it when it reminds him too much of something he would have said to Hermann Prime. Instead, he just says, quietly, "Thank you."

Hermann doesn't make any indication of having heard him, and Newt falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, but he can swear he feels a hand brush hair away from his forehead, gently, just before he drifts off.

Hermann comes by in the morning—Newt’s wound up sleeping in, so it’s good it’s a weekend—to check on him.

“You really don’t have to,” Newt protests as Hermann sets down a tray of food and pulls a thermometer out of his pocket.

Hermann doesn’t reply to that; just says, “Open your mouth, Newton,” and sticks the thermometer under his tongue, and then pulls it out a minute later.

He frowns at it. “You have a fever,” he says, “nothing too bad, but I’m going to _strongly_ advise you take the day easy and rest.”

“…fuck you,” Newt says, because he can’t think of much else to reply with, and Hermann’s lips twitch. Newt’s heart aches, but the warmth is greater than before, and when he looks at Hermann, he doesn’t see a dead man anymore.

* * *

“I’ve found it,” Hermann says, and there’s something— _odd_ about the way he says it that makes Newt sit up straighter; to look the other over and see his hands clenched on his cane; nervous.

They’re the only ones left, so Newt doesn’t bother being discreet. “What?”

“A Drift partner.”

The way Hermann says it—the apprehensive excitement in his voice—makes Newt’s heart sink for reasons he can’t understand. Of course Hermann has someone else he’s compatible with—it makes sense, really; he probably did in the Prime timeline and just never bothered to look further into it.

“Oh,” Newt says, hollowly. “So have you met them yet?”

The other blinks at him. “Pardon?” he says.

“Your Drift partner,” Newt clarifies, “I mean, I know there isn’t much you can do now, but…”

Hermann’s expression shudders. “Ah. Yes, my—my Drift partner,” he says. “Yes—well—nevermind. I have data that needs analysis.”

And then he goes back over to his side of the lab—though this time, there’s no Line of Demarcation, so the divide is in his head— without saying anything else.

Newt frowns. Somehow, he gets the feeling that Hermann isn’t telling him everything.

For a moment, he considers pushing it—before, he would have—but he puts the idea aside. It’s up to Hermann to decide what he shares with Newt—Newt isn’t going to breath his boundaries. It wouldn’t be fair of him.

Hermann is oddly standoffish the rest of the day, and whenever Newt tries to figure out what it is that’s wrong, he avoids answering.

Eventually, Newt gives up. He has bigger things to worry about anyway—like the return of Ranger Raleigh Beckett.

Newt does his spiel with Beckett, though this time, he's a bit more tactical, and he doesn't try and get Pentecost to approve his pet project—he won't, Newt knows; not even in this timeline where Hermann's the one coding it. Too much risk—Pentecost will take gambles, but only if he's too desperate not to, and in his mind, there's few situations desperate enough to excuse the risk of the death of half of the K-Sci department.

"It's going to have to be soon," Newt says, later; after Raleigh and Pentecost are gone, and it's just him and Hermann in the lab. "The double even and triple event are coming up soon."

Mentioning it makes Hermann grimace; lips thinning into a pinched line. "I hate to admit it, but...you're right," he sighs, "it _will_ have to be soon."

Newt tries to offer a comforting smile, and realises, too late, that it's too flat and hollow; Hermann's got an unreadable expression on his face and Newt remembers, suddenly, that _this_ Hermann is young still, and hasn't been through as much.

He clears his throat and tries to change the topic. "Anyway, I'm going to need to find a Drift partner soon—"

"Already taken care of," Hermann cuts in. "And don't worry about them agreeing—I already know for a fact that they're willing to help."

"...right," Newt says; doesn't say, _Wow, Hermann, who's the lucky person?_ "Can I at least meet them?"

Hermann licks his lips; stares off just over Newt's left shoulder. "Er. Obligations, you understand. We're all very busy. But they'll be there when you're ready to Drift."

There's more he's not saying, Newt can tell, but he doesn't think he should push it; not now; so he just nods.

"Okay. Uh...three days, then?"

"That should be fine, yes," Hermann confirms.

"Great."

* * *

He shouldn't be nervous; he's done this all before, and yet, there's a part of him that's still afraid of what he's about to do—maybe because this brain reminds him so much of another one, and, well. He still has nightmares.

Either way, by the time he gets down to the lab, he's all jittery energy, lips chewed at and raw and fingers fidgeting; skin almost too small for what's contained beneath it; too tight, and he wheels the monstrosity of a machine out from where they've been keeping it to where the tank is.

Hermann's nowhere to be found.

Maybe he just decided to sleep in; Newt wouldn't blame him; but he's always so punctual that it strikes Newt as odd, especially since the kaiju alarm went off a bit ago—Newt would have slept through it since he's basically used to the sound by now, but he set alarms before going to sleep. There's no sign of his Drift partner either.

Just as he's hooking stuff up—he's going to Drift solo again, probably, and then just tell Anako that he really, really, _really_ needs a fucking brainscan, which should turn up enough for them to keep him on lockdown so the Precursors can't make him do anything—the door opens.

"Newton. Sorry I'm late."

Newt freezes; swallows, thickly. "... _Hermann?_ "

Hermann gives a nervous smile. "I'm sorry I'm late."

"No problem," Newt says; finally; but he barely feels himself mouth the words. He might be a little bit in shock. "Here's—here's the other squid-cap."

Hermann gets it on and adjusted far more quickly that Newt thinks he will; and he wonders how the other knows what to do—and then could kick himself, because of _course_ Hermann does; it's basic training at the Jaeger Academy. "Right," he says, trying to distract himself from his own thoughts, "neural handshake in three...two...one—"

_pain pain all there is is pain—_

_the white-blue of the anteverse—_

_hermann is young so young but already he's so quiet and so hurt and—_

_newt's twelve and Monica is scoffing at him disappointment—_

_the kaiju are being sewn together—_

_colonists—_

_PAIN—_

They gasp back to reality.

"That...was horrible," Hermann manages, before he has to run for the trashcan and empty his stomach. Newt pulls off his own squid cap and makes his way over, patting his arm in an attempt to offer comfort.

When Hermann's done, he stands, shakily. "It wasn't enough," he says, "the brain was too damaged—we need more information," and on the one hand that's good because it means Hermann didn't see anything in Newt's head that shouldn't be there but also there goes Newt's hope of avoiding a second Drift because he can't very well go to Pentecost and say _hey man I know how to blow up the Breach because I've already lived through this_ without sounding like a lunatic and getting dismissed.

"Another Drift," Newt says, heart heavy, and hopes that his voice is steady.

"Another Drift," Hermann agrees; grimly. "We need to talk to the Marshal."

It's approved; of course it is. Now that they've proven they can do it, and with a triple event on the horizon, Pentecost is far more amenable. It probably doesn't hurt that, this time, Hermann is arguing _for_ him rather than against or with him. Either way, Pentecost shows them Chau, gives his bit about luma lamps, and sends them on their way.

They're halfway to Chau's hideout before Newt notices it; a slight hesitance in Hermann's gait, as if there's something he wants to say, but can't bring himself to. Newt'd ask, but—well, they're kind of crunched for time, so instead he just moves closer to Hermann, as if his mere physical closeness will be of comfort.

"Chau," Newt says, flatly, when they get in, and feels a spark of glee when he manages to avoid the knife in his nose and catch it between his hands, which seems to impress Hermann, who's currently glaring at every lackey around them warningly. "We need access to the fallen kaiju—Otachi."

"Why?" Chau demands, and then tries to bullshit him about the brain until Hermann snaps and begins to threaten him. Newt doesn't blame the physicist, honestly—if he were as kickass as Hermann, he'd be up in Chau's face, but sadly he's a good six inches shorter and looks like he's barely grown out of his emo phase.

"Fine," Chau says, finally, "but I get to keep _everything_ , you hear? You can do whatever the hell you want with the secondary brain, but once you're done, it's mine."

"Sure," Newt agrees, and doesn't bother mentioning that Chau's not going to be around much longer to do anything with it, if he tags along with them like Newt's almost certain he will. "Hermann?"

"Fine," Hermann says, "let's just get this over with."

This time, Newt makes sure they stand further back—or at least, that he and Hermann do. He doesn't really give a fuck about Chau, and the man wouldn't listen, anyway. In the end, he winds up eaten by Baby Otachi, unsurprisingly.

He doesn't feel _too_ bad about it.

Drift Two: Electric Boogaloo is hardly any more fun than the first time around, and Newt's really glad he grabbed that handkerchief of Hermann's, because the other winds up throwing up again. When he stands up, he wipes his mouth shakily and gives Newt a wide-eyed look that clearly reads _what the actual fuck?_ so Newt figures he probably saw everything in the Drift.

"We can talk about it later," he promises, "but right now—"

"We need to tell the others," Hermann finishes, and nods. "Alright."

He's not off the hook, and he knows it, but he doesn't expect to be; Hermann deserves answers. He finds that it's—a relief, though, almost, that now there's someone else who knows about this, and he thinks Hermann knows that, from the long, if silent, looks he gives him during the chopper ride back.

He thinks he wants to say something, maybe; but he doesn't, for fear that it would get lost in all the noise, and then they're limping through the hallways of the Shatterdome as fast as they can and yelling and, well, there isn't exactly a _chance_ to say anything.

And then; finally; it's over.

Newt thinks he falls out of it at some point, because one moment he and Hermann are stumbling, weary, down the hallways, and the next, Newt's eyes are snapping open to find that his head is pillowed on Hermann's shoulder and they're in a bed.

Hermann's head is turned towards him, and one of his arms is sprawled across Newt, and this is—this is so _fucking_ intimate Newt doesn't know what to do and, fuck, he's starting to hyperventilate, isn't he?

"Fuck," he hisses, and tries to pull away, but the motion startles Hermann enough to wake him up, and then he's blinking softly at Newt, and, _fuck—_

"Newton?" he asks, quietly, "what's wrong?"

He can't—he fucking _can't_ because Hermann is right _there_ , so alive, but all Newt can see is a Hermann who's dead, who died by his own hands, breath choked out of him by the man he trusted so much, and, _fuck—_

There's a hand on his arm, and Newt flinches, sitting up and backing up until his back hits the wall; curls in on himself.

"Newton?" Hermann tries again, and he looks so— _vulnerable_ , so _trusting_ , and that's what fucked him up the _last time_ , Newt almost screams at him. How the _hell_ did he manage to spend—years without this, and now, suddenly, he's breaking down? He fucking _hates_ it.

This time, when Hermann moves to touch him, Newt lets him; lets himself give in, to grip, desperately, tears streaming down his cheeks; to breathe in the scent of Hermann, here, with him, and so very alive.

Finally, his sobs recede enough that Hermann pulls away a bit, and Newt begins to freak the _fuck_ out, but then he whispers, "Shh, Newton, it's alright, I just need to get into a more comfortable position," and Newt lets out a shaky sigh of relief.

"What's wrong?" Hermann asks, after a while, and Newt, eyes closed, thinks on it.

"I—I just kind of freaked out," he admits. "I didn't have any time to deal with...anything, so I just compartmentalised, because, obviously, there were more important things, but now..." he trails off; and then draws in a hiccoughing breath.

Hermann doesn't say anything for a bit, just holds him tightly, and when he finally speaks, it's quiet. "Everything I saw was real, wasn't it." It's more a statement than a question—as if he knows the answer, but he has to make sure.

Newt nods, and then when he realises Hermann won't be able to see that, says, "Yeah. Yeah, every...every last bit of it."

"Oh," Hermann says, simply, and that's the last thing said by either of them for a long, long time.

"I suppose we should get those brainscans anyway, huh?" Newt asks, finally, and Hermann hums in agreement.

"Probably," he says, "but...not right now. The Precursors aren't going to send us on a genocidal rampage right away, are they?"

"...uh. No. Probably not," Newt admits, "it took them a few years to get there last time."

Hermann nods. "Well then," he says, "I'm still rather tired, and I'd rather like to lay down and sleep with the man I love in my arms."

Newt begins to nod, and then freezes. "The—what?" he chokes. "You— _what?_ "

Hermann turns to him, frowning slightly. "Did you not know?" he asks.

"I— _no_ ," Newt says, and then takes a moment to think about it. "Well, fuck," he says, "you've always loved me. Holy shit. Well. That explains...a lot, actually." He takes a breath, just to ground himself, and then thinks about things again. "Well, the good news is, I'm like, 90% sure I love you too."

"And the other ten percent?"

"Wiggle-room for me to fall in love with you," Newt says, and Hermann smiles at him; fragile and a bit weary, but wholly genuine, and moves to lay back down, and Newt follows after.

"You're very sweet," Hermann says, after they're all situated, and brushes back the hair from Newt's forehead, leaning to press a kiss first there, and then to his lips.

"Shut up," Newt says, but he's grinning now, and he shifts slightly so he's closer to Hermann and lets his eyes slip shut.

**Author's Note:**

> also [@bae-science](bae-science.tumblr.com)'s oc anako (whom i ADORE) makes an appearance towards the end in passing, go check out their mind/body/soul series for more on anako
> 
> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


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